Dimming Memory


Such is…

A table,
a darkened computer monitor,
a trusted mirror of late,
staring back at the old man's face
whose hand props up a withering image
of fading semblance.

Such is…

Time's map,

now sallow of spent harvest,
wrinkled age awaiting tomorrow with swollen tributaries,
purple veins spidering across a weathered landscape
once of vibrant color,
now but survival in raised relief,
remnants of a once ambitious climb to the mountain tops,
now simply erosion awaiting Time's

next dusty dune to take shape.

Such is…

The mirror of one's lifetime of grist,
the roots of age separating,
one's capillaries emerged,
a corroded shield once handsome,
now a decaying canvas
stretched tight over facial bones protruding,
sunken erosion of yesterdays' tenacity.

Such is…

Lucidity waning
as the lost look of yesterday
struggles with how it feels
to merely gaze at a glass reflection,
the daily visiting of one’s tenuous imagination.
“After all,” he repeats,
“It was just the other day
when I heard the Charleston
drifting around in the dark.
Remember that Helen?
Remember?”

Having to remind him, “Helen’s not here anymore,”

consoles his visitor… sometimes.

He lowers his head onto the desk,
as his smile mumbles the words
“Helen darling,
I need you to dance the Charleston for me.
I really… Don't you remember the old days?”

The silence of sadness quivers beneath his eyelids.
“It's okay sweetheart,” he says.
“It's just your dimming memory.”

Carefully tucking these moments back into his own remembrance,
the visitor of another generation places a pillow under the man’s head.

Such is the patience continuing for both,
one person’s finality,

and another’s anticipation.

Such is remembrance of tomorrow… dimming.